


Charles Xavier's Design

by not_who_we_are



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Hannibal AU, M/M, Modern AU, Powered AU, everything is not people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_who_we_are/pseuds/not_who_we_are
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Erik Lehnsherr is concerned for the well being of his patient, and friend, Charles Xavier.<br/>His desire to do "good" has left Charles vulnerable, and Erik is waiting in the wings.</p>
<p>This is an AU based on NBC's "Hannibal."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charles Xavier's Design

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clear_Liqueur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clear_Liqueur/gifts).



> I'm sure this isn't the first fic of this nature. The cherik pairing was just begging to absorb some Will/Hannibal. It's a perfect fit!
> 
> I blame Clearliqueur for this. I'm highly suggestible, and when you start talking about Charles in Will's sweaters and telepathy, well, I'm up at 3AM scrawling in a notebook because it's writing itself! I restrained myself though, because if I hadn't this would've turned into a 20 chapter WIP.
> 
> This was a bit intimidating, and I hope you xmfc fannibals enjoy. :)

“Well, would you care to tell me what happened?”

Charles can barely contain the tremble of his hands. It threatens to rip through him, leaving his whole body rocked by the quivering shudder. “It’s getting harder and harder to look.” He bites his lower lip, eyes glassy and moist with exhaustion. 

“Have you spoken to Agent MacTaggert about this?”

Charles can see the bright crimson splash against the snow. He can see it as clearly as if he were there. As though he’d been the one to paint the ivory canvass. 

MacTaggert had called him in again and again and he never said no. 

“I like helping people,” he croaked. “And this curse—”

“It’s not a curse, Charles.” His voice was as smooth as the slide of silk across dimpled flesh. “You are not a cursed man. You are gifted.”

Charles lifted his chin to meet the eyes of the man whose gaze never wavered. Dr. Lehnsherr’s posture was relaxed, but, as always, commanding. He commanded Charles’s attention.

“I certainly don’t feel gifted…” he trailed off.

“Charles,” Erik spoke gently, attempting to coax the man out. “Why don’t you just tell Agent MacTaggert, the FBI, that you can no longer assist them.”

“Are you telling me to do this? As my doctor?” Charles’s voice was pinched. The rawness and lethargy ever present just under the surface.

Erik sighed. “I am _suggesting_ this course of action—as your friend. We are friends, aren’t we?”

Charles rose to his feet, a feeble attempt at retreat. He tugged his sweater down, straightening it. The thick wool felt rough, yet oddly comforting, as it scraped the pads of his fingers. 

He moved towards the office’s high windows. Charles looked out. But all he saw was the blackness of night, his own nearly unrecognizable reflection staring back.

From behind him, he was aware of leather creaking and the gliding whisper of fabric as Erik moved from his chair. Now, reflected in pitch black glass, he could see Erik’s form, moving ever closer. Even at this time of night, in only shirtsleeves, his hair, his whole presence, was impeccable. The pair of ghostly images peering out of the darkness were contradictory. The Alpha and the Omega. But, standing silently in the cool stillness of the office, Charles was unsure who was who.

Erik was close enough now that Charles could almost feel his breath on the nap of his neck. Or he imagined he could. 

“Charles, we are friends, are we not?” Erik repeated. “I am simply concerned for your well being. You are subjecting yourself to an undue amount of stress.”

“I’m fine,” Charles sighed without conviction, his fingers knotted together. “This is just what I do.” 

“Because of your desire to help people?” 

The burgundy of Erik’s shirt was suddenly too bright, even in the glass. Charles shut his eyes, but the streak of scarlet was waiting for him there. “It’s what I have to do. I have to make use of this,” he spat out the word, “ability.” Charles’s skinned flushed. The tips of his ears burned red, and he was sure Erik could see the betraying blush from where he stood.

“But it is more important that you take care of yourself. Don’t you agree?”

“Honestly? I don’t.”

“Charles, what you can do is of great use to the authorities. But it is your gift to use as you choose.”

“And I choose to go chasing ghosts…” Charles lifted his hand, trailing his fingertips along the chilled pane of glass, tracing the shadow of himself.

“I know what you do is important. Not just to you, Charles, to other, innocent people. But you should not be putting them ahead of yourself.”

Charles turned, meeting Erik’s intense scrutiny. “I’ve been getting migraines.” He shook his head, agitation rising at the memory. The admission. “It… it _cuts_ through me. It, it’s too much sometimes. And it’s beyond pain. It’s the _absence_ of pain. It’s a void.” Charles needed to move. His legs suddenly felt as though they’d been granted a mind of their own. “And I’m losing time,” he almost whispered, back again turned. 

The note of concern in Erik’s voice was tangible. “When did this start?”

Charles chuckled. It was dark and humorless. It sounded like death in his throat. “When I started reading the victims.”

Erik rolled the words over in his head. “You mean the dead,” he said simply. “You’re reading the minds of the deceased victims.” 

The truth of it caused Charles to whip around, a growing panic contorting his features. “What use am I if I can’t use this _thing_ for something good! If this is what I have to do… to… to find some _justice_ , then I’m going to do it.”

“For whom are you seeking justice, Charles?”

Charles’s shoulders slumped. His head hung heavy, crushing fatigue nipping at his heels. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”

Erik shifted closer, erasing the scant few feet that separated them. “Charles, what you do, it isn’t a curse. But it’s also what you make of it. You do not have to put yourself at risk to justify the gift you’ve been given.”

Charles lifted his face and blinked up at Erik. “Stop using that word,” his voice was shaky yet sharp. “Reading people’s minds is no gift. You have no idea.”

“Then you should tell me about it.” In an effortless motion, Erik’s hand glided up to rest on Charles’s shoulder. The elegant digits dug lightly into the fabric. The warmth of his palm burned through the layers, scorching Charles in a not unpleasant way.

With eyes locked, a calmness almost wholly forgotten by Charles passed between them. Charles let himself fall into the depths, the sound of Erik’s honey colored rasp still fresh in his ears. 

There was a promise of safety in his words, and the touch was like a tether. So lost was Charles in this moment that he failed to notice the twitch of the paperweight on Erik’s desk; the tremble of the letter opener; the slight shift of the scalpel. The metal was breathing, sharing Erik’s shallow inhalations. But Charles wasn’t listening. Didn't care.


End file.
